Nothing Here To Hold On To
by AngharadTheRowan
Summary: The night before Dean has to pull Sam out of Stanford, he attempts to deal with all the emotional mess he knows the act will cause. Set the night before the pilot episode. Oneshot inside Dean Winchester's head.


**I own nothing. Nothing at all. I'm just borrowing. Huge thanks to my lovely friend Mimzy, who rocks my socks, for doing a last-minute beta job for me.**

**This is set the night before Dean finds Sam at Stanford. I hope you like it. The lyrics below inspired the fic. I've been trying to work this song into a fic forever! And if you've never heard Sara Bareilles, I highly recommend it. She's awesome.**

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_There's a harvest each Saturday night_

_At the bars filled with perfume and hitchin' a ride_

_A place you can stand for one night_

_Get gone_

_It's clear this conversation ain't doin' a thing_

_'Cause these boys only listen to me when I sing_

_And I don't feel like singing tonight_

_All the same songs_

_Here in these deep city lights_

_Girl could get lost tonight_

_I'm finding every reason to be gone_

_There's nothing here to hold on to_

_Could I hold you?_

_Situation's always the same_

_You've got your wolves in their clothes whispering Hollywood's name_

_Stealing gold from the silver they see_

_But it's not me_

_Calling out_

_Somebody save me, I feel like I'm fading away_

_Am I gone?_

_Calling out_

_Somebody save me, I feel like I'm fading..._

_Here in these deep city lights _

_Girl could get lost tonight_

_I'm finding every reason to be gone_

_There's nothing here to hold on to_

_Can I hold on to_

_You..._

_-Sara Bareilles, "City"_

Dad's gone. He's just fucking gone. No trace, goddammit. So all I have is this lousy journal that makes almost no sense... Just a bunch of numbers and cryptic messages. Could he not have just written down "Hey, boys, goin' fishin'. Be back later." Or, Jesus, answer your goddamn phone. This is what cell phones are for, Dad. They ring, you pick it up, this is the social contract. Learn it. Hell, I wouldn't have cared if he'd said that he was going whoring, as long as he didn't just disappear off the face of the earth.

Oh, God. I just used "Dad" and "going whoring" in the same sentence. I could puke.

So here I am. I'm in a bar in Palo Alto, California, and I'm staring down three empty shot glasses. No sissy drinks for me tonight; hell, not even just a beer. This is strictly a "as many tequila shots as you can take until you're on the floor" kind of night. Because tomorrow, I have to go rip out my brother's heart.

I know he'll come. Sam thinks he hates Dad, but deep down, he doesn't. I know it. And when I tell him how long Dad's been gone, I know he'll come with me. I may have to beat him over the head a little about it, drop some guilt trips, but he'll go. And I will ruin his life. Again.

The beat in this bar's music subsides, and some asshole puts on a slow song. If I knew who they were, I'd seriously consider punching them in the face. It's not just slow, it's sad, too. Just what everybody here needs. At least the bartenders will make out like bandits; now everyone's going to order another drink. I'm no exception. I wave a waitress over and order three more shots of Patron. Fuck Cuervo, I'm drinking the good stuff tonight.

My mind goes straight back to where it was. Sam got out. He's making a life for himself. And here I come, barging in like Dad. Nope, sorry, screw your law school, we have to go kill monsters. Now. Got a new life? Too fucking bad. Cry me a river.

I wonder what our lives would have looked like now if Mom hadn't died like that. Dad doesn't know, but I saw it. I remember it. I have nightmares about it. I've got just as much of a complex about this as Dad does. I couldn't save her. Hell, I was four or something. Nobody would expect me to, but I would have given up my soul for... I dunno. Height. Strength. Powers. A fire extinguisher. Whatever.

I rub my temples, and my tequila is served. I mutter a thanks, and I shotgun two of the shots. I'm not nearly drunk enough for it not to burn its way down, but at least it's a distraction.

There are about a million things I would rather do than have to face Sammy tomorrow. Shaving badly and dunking my face into a vat of lemon juice, for one. Shoving glass under my fingernails. Listening to the Jonas Brothers on repeat. Indefinitely.

I can't believe I'm so far sunk into this shit right now. I'm pathetic.

Some other asshole ordered yet another sad, slow song. I get up, pull the change out of my pocket, and pick out "Carry On My Wayward Son", and then queue up "Wanted Dead Or Alive" to boot. Fuck you, Sad Song Asshole.

I wish I felt more... alive. I'm in a college bar; this is not some roadhouse where everyone's drinking their problems away. It's Bar Type Number Two – coeds, all trying to get some. I'm what, four years older than these idiots?

I look around, trying to distract myself again. I watch their body language; mostly guys acting like walking hard-ons and chicks playing hard to get. Well, except for the desperate ones.

And then I notice her.

There's a girl sitting at a table, by her lonesome. I don't know whether it's tequila goggles or real, but she's not half bad. And she's doing exactly what I am – staring down empty glasses with a look of consternation on her face. I decide to give these little college boys a lesson on how to do it right, and I walk over to her table. I simply sit down, and before she can say anything, I shout to a waiter. One more round for me and the lady, please.

She looks like she doesn't know what to say. Finally, she stammers "Uh, this is my table?" like her grip on it is tenuous or something.

"I know," I reply. "You and I are the only ones staring down the bottom of our glasses in here, so I figured misery would like some company. I'm Dean."

She says her name, still looking freaked out.

I snort. "Don't be scared. I left all my rohypnol at home, and my guns are locked in the trunk of my car. You're totally safe," I say, sarcasm dripping from my voice. Her eyes widen, and I lean forward. "It's a joke." Well, the part about the rohypnol, anyway. If she saw my arsenal, she'd shit bricks.

"So, um, what program are you in?"

Program... "I'm already out. Rookie in the Secret Service," I say, flashing the fake badge in my pocket very quickly. It works. Her eyes widen, and her mouth forms a perfect little "o".

"You protect the president?"

"Oh, hell no. Too young. I get to run around the country smacking people who might be a threat upside the head." She's buying it all. I'm a damn good liar, and honestly? I wish I wasn't.

Our drinks arrive, and she stares down at her shots. "You have an impressive life," she says with a hint of sadness and envy.

"Really, it's boring. And what do you do?"

"I want to become a psychologist," she says softly, almost as if she's embarrassed.

Aww, shit. I'm hoping she hasn't taken Detecting Bullshit Levels 101 yet.

"That's cool," I say, nodding. I down two more shots. I think this next one will be my last. I can hold my liquor, but I think I'm getting close to my "enough" mark. No use throwing up on the girl.

A light bulb goes off in my pants, and I realize that what I have here is primo distraction material. Turn on the ol' charm, Dean. I make a mental bet with myself that I can get her out of here and agreeing to come to my motel room in 30 minutes. I check my watch to make sure of the time. Start.

"You know, you're awfully pretty," I say, smiling sweetly. "Far too pretty to look so sad."

She blushes and looks down. "Bad day."

I reach across the table and grab her hand, stroking it lightly, and I swear I can see fireworks go off in her eyes. She's not used to this. I'm wondering just how hard I have the tequila goggles on tonight and hope that I don't scream when I roll over tomorrow morning. "I'm so sorry," I croon. "You wanna talk about it?"

She looks down again. "You don't wanna hear my crap."

"Why the hell not? I would only hope someone else would lend me an ear at a difficult time," I say, smiling. Alright, apparently she hasn't taken the Detecting Bullshit class, because she would have spotted my fake concerned smile in a second. "Ease your load." Hopefully, I'll be easin' my load into... well, that's later.

"My fiance left me."

I tsk and pat her hand. "That asshole."

"...For my best friend," she says, not looking up.

My reaction is genuine this time. "Damn. That really sucks."

"You're preaching to the choir," she mumbles. She cocks her thumb behind her. "See that couple over there? Yeah. My ex is the one with the stupid gangsta rap t-shirt on."

I couldn't help but laugh. "That guy? I think you dodged a bullet. I could take him, easy." I snort.

She lifts one of her Kamikazes to her lips and mutters "Lily sure took him".

I shrug and decide to ignore that. "He's what, 130? 140? Honey, I could lay him out flat in a New York minute."

She downs another shot. "Sometimes I wish someone would," she grumbles.

Oh, fantastic. More distraction. I give a feral grin, a wink, and stand up. "My lady," I say, bowing at the waist, "your knight in shining armor has arrived. And he'll be back in a minute."

Surprise hits her face as she realizes what I'm about to do, and she hisses "No, Dean!" to my retreating back. It doesn't take a psychology degree to know that she's only telling me not to do it because it's not entirely socially acceptable, not because she doesn't want to see him with a shiner the size of Alaska. I crack my knuckles on the way over. This is gonna be fun.

I plop down in the chair next to Gangsta Rap White Boy and his new girl. I request yet another shot of Patron, get it, and down the hatch it goes. Liquid courage, not that I really need it. I've been shooting things for a while now, and it's gonna feel damn good to actually, physically connect with something. Don't need consecrated iron rounds for this.

"So," I say, interrupting the new lovers' overly cutesy conversation. "I hear you're quite the man about town."

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" he answers.

"Nope. I know of you, though. God, who doesn't?" I laugh. "Well, I know most of the chicks on campus know you." I lean in closer. "Did you really give those two freshmen the herp?"

"Two freshmen – I don't know what you're talking about," he stammers. His girl, the ex-best friend, immediately looks alarmed.

"Sure you do. Sara Moss, and..." I snap my fingers impatiently. "That Robert guy. That really sucks, man; what happens in Vegas may stay in Vegas, but herpes? That shit comes back with you."

Ex-Best Friend gapes and starts to breathe shallowly. She looks to Gangsta with wild eyes, then to me, then back to him. He shakes his head wildly. "I don't even know a Sara Moss!" he said.

"Yes, but Robert? Your best friend?" she cried out. "He just got those test results back, you asshole!" She smacks him with her purse and runs out of the bar, obviously trying not to cry.

Talk about your stroke of good luck... I look back at my girl at the table, and wink. She's trying not to laugh.

"You asshole!" Gangsta says, standing up.

"Hey, man, just repeating what I heard. That chick's lucky she got out before I started in on the three inch rumors, if you know what I mean." I down another shot, because I know exactly what's coming next.

"Motherfu-" Gangsta swings at my head. It's laughably weak, but God bless him, he's putting his poor little all into it. I catch his fist easily and twist it around his back, and he screams in frustration and pain. I'm behind him now. "Hi," I breathe into his ear. "I'm karma." I decide to play really dirty, and I knee him in the balls from behind. He collapses, choking.

"Hey!" The bartender yells. "Take it outside!"

I shrug. "Okay." I heft Gangsta over my shoulder. He's still trying to catch his breath. And with a wide grin at my girl, I haul him outside.

She stands up, wobbling a bit. Aww, the poor girl can't hold her Kamikazes well. How cute.

She follows me outside, giggling insanely. She's right at that sweet spot – drunk enough to lose inhibitions, but not drunk enough to throw up on me later. I had that happen once (okay; more than once), and man, lemme tell ya – I've got a lot of kinks, but that's not one of 'em.

I find a patch of grass to deposit Gangsta on instead of the gravel. (What can I say? I'm not a complete bastard. Just part.) He looks up at me, all piss and vinegar, trying desperately to get over the fact that he's got crushed balls, because a crowd's gathering and he has to man up.

I look down at him, and I don't see what I should – a pathetic, skinny college kid who's already gotten his just desserts. Instead, I see Sam's life... and I get mad. "You motherfucker," I mutter under my breath. "You got out. Fuck." I stomp on his chest just hard enough to keep him down, but not hard enough to break anything. "You abandoned us," I hiss quietly. "You abandoned me."

"Wh- what?" Gangsta says, completely confused.

I haul off and hit him a few times. It's sublimely satisfying, the crunch of my knuckles against his face. I'm actually holding back, but I''ll be damned if it doesn't feel good. One, two, three times, and then I see I've broken his nose. He's crying like a little girl, and I suddenly feel like the biggest loser in the world. This kid didn't ask to be the target of my repressed anger.

Oh well. Too late now; the show must go on. "And that's why you don't fucking cheat on the woman you asked to marry you," I say loudly, for the crowd's benefit. They cheer, and I let him get up and scurry away. "That's right, you run," I yell at his retreating back.

I turn around, and my girl is standing there. She's grinning like a fool, although I know that tomorrow, she's going to feel like shit for cheering me on. And possibly for boning me afterwards, because I see the look in her eyes. All of a sudden, I know I can't take her back to my motel room. That's my space, and I don't want her in it. It's a room with doubles, because I do not plan on leaving Stanford without my little brother, and I don't want... I don't want the memory of tonight hanging in the air there. I don't want to remember that I got wasted, kicked the shit out of a defenseless kid, and screwed some girl who will possibly turn out to be less than pretty tomorrow.

I mean, Sammy's not psychic or anything. He won't know. We've been apart for long enough to where he won't see my tell, know how I used and abused people tonight to get my frustrations out of the way. I'm gonna get him to come with me, and then I'm gonna slap on a happy face and pretend we're twelve again. Maybe pull some dumb prank that will piss him off. It's just our language. I draw penises on his face with Sharpies when he's asleep, and he knows that I care.

God, we're a fucked up family.

My girl wobbles over and throws her arms around my neck. "My knight in shining armor," she breathes. "I guess I have to reward you now."

Time to be charming. "I would gladly accept any favor that my lady might bestow on a lowly knight such as myself."

"Let's go to your place," she whispers.

"No." I shake my head. "Can't. My partner's sharing a room with me." She looks confused for a second, and I realize she's forgotten that I'm a fake government agent. "My Secret Service partner," I say, smiling. "He snores like a sonofabitch."

"I can fix this, then," she insists, digging her phone out of her jeans. She taps away, and two seconds later, there's a beep. "Okay. My dorm room is all clear."

"Lead the way then," I say, offering her my arm.

It doesn't take a genius to deduce what happens when we get there. Clothes are suddenly off and I'm digging in my wallet for a condom, and she's ready in half a second. I don't feel playful tonight, so no foreplay. I just go for it. She doesn't seem to mind.

I lie next to her, trying not to fall off her twin size, college-issue bed afterwards, and I stare at the ceiling. I thought that would distract me more than it did. She's a good sport, though; she's getting all breathy over the fact that I have visible muscles, and as soon as I'm ready again, she all but pounces on me. I lay back and let her do everything. I try to lose myself in the sensations, but I'm just coming up with numb. Numb's okay. I'll take it.

I wake up the next morning with a pounding headache. She's still asleep. I'm surprise to find out that my tequila goggles were not fastened quite as securely as I thought they were; as it turns out, she's actually rather pretty. Her red hair fans out on the pillow, and her pale skin rises and falls as she breathes. Under the sheet, I can see pretty curves, and I wish through the hangover that I'd actually gotten to enjoy them last night.

I manage to get out of the bed without waking her, and pull my clothes back on. I spot a notebook on her desk, and grab a pen. I don't usually do this. I don't usually care. But something about how innocent she looks stabs me in the gut, and I grab a pen. I used her. I could at least say goodbye. And with a sinking feeling that makes me feel even more like shit, I realize that I don't remember what her name was.

"Thank you," I scribble out quickly. "And find someone better. Better than your ex, better than me. You deserve more." I sign it "your knight" and place it gingerly on her bed. And just like that, I'm gone. I refuse to let myself wallow in how she's gonna feel when she wakes up.

Sam's dorm is across campus, and I all but run there. I have got to get out of this town, and now. I've let myself admit way too many things, feel way too many things that I keep very well stuffed down, and I'm suffocating. It's all the job now, I tell myself. Get Sammy and get the hell out of Dodge.

I find his dorm and bang on the door, and... there he is. It's Sam. Jesus Christ, when did he get so goddamn tall?

He's not happy to see me. I wouldn't be, either. "...Dean?"

"We gotta go, man," I say, putting my mask back on. "It's Dad."

And that's where everything began.

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**If you really want a good picture of Dean's girl, I modeled her after Doctor Who's Karen Gillan, who is freaking gorgeous. She's the kind of chick you'd hate if she weren't so damn cool.**

**Please do review if you liked it – or, hell, if you didn't. Tell me off! Tell me I'm cool! Whichever is fine by me.**

**Thanks for reading!**


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